


are you woman enough to be my man?

by janie_tangerine



Series: the jaimebrienne spite countdown to season eight [26]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (AT LEAST I HOPE THERE'S FEELINGS), (is it bad? probably), Bottom Jaime Lannister, Brienne is the Best, Dirty Talk, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Future Fic, Gender Roles, I Don't Even Know, Idiots in Love, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Riding, Season/Series 08, Spitefic, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Bang That was Promised, Top Brienne of Tarth, VERY LIGHT BUT, Woman on Top, guys it's SER brienne now i don't make the rulessss, knightly vows used as Probably Not Like They Were Intended But We Don't Care, post 8x03, spoilers for 8x03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 18:40:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18697093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: “Please,” he says, “no one deserved it more than you.SerBrienne.”Suddenly, a rush of blood goes down her back, and she feels it, as unlikely as it might sound. She’s also sure another went to her cheek because her face feels on fire.She leans down and kisses him again, hard, her thighs moving around his sides as she presses up closer, and she needs to be out of her clothes and she needs him to be out of his, too —When she moves back, she looks down at him. He has a knowing look in his eyes, a raised eyebrow, as if he’s daring her to take that full leap, and she can feel how hard he is under his breeches, for her, gods, for her —“Say it again,” she blurts, her hands going to his breeches, undoing the laces.“What do you mean exactly,” he grins, slow, not moving his hands, “Ser?”





	are you woman enough to be my man?

**Author's Note:**

> ... So, tldr: at least three people, post 8x03, discussed with me about 'BUT WHAT ABOUT SOME POST BATTLE PORN WHERE HE CALLS HER SER'. One of them was outraged for the lack of post 8x02 pegging where he calls her likewise. I aim to please, so.... have some porn where THAT HAPPENS. The pegging is in the epilogue because post-battle it might have been somehow hard to pull off but hey, I TRIED TO FIT THE BILL.
> 
> ALSO: this wasn't what I had in plans for *a certain spitefic* BUT the moment I finished it I realized it fit the bill perfectly and since the original plan implied a... very.... long modern au thing I honestly don't think I have time for right now, I'LL TAKE A RAIN CHECK ON THAT because after planning it for three months I sure as hell am writing that but for now have this one, it should tide you over. TODAY'S PEARL OF WISDOM THAT Y'ALL DID NOT NEED TO SEE, sent to yours truly in the year of the lord 2016 is:
> 
> I'm just gonna leave that there without a comment and leave you to the porn, which I'm 100% sure is preferred to this amazing category of hot takes. ;)
> 
> Also: nothing belongs to me, I WISH next episode opened like this and the title is from my second-favorite Pearl Jam song, thanks very much @ eddie vedder for saving my ass this round and being the mvp, and I'll saunter downwards towards the rest of the spite. AND GOOD LUCK TO US FOR EPISODE FOUR. ;)

 

I.

 

Knocking on Jaime’s door is the first thing she does after seeing to Lady Sansa and to Pod and after taking a long, _long_ bath.

She’d have gone before, but he volunteered to help Tyrion and the others with the dead in the crypt and she paid her part in the godswood along with her lady, and the less she thinks about how _that_ went, the better. And after, she was — covered in blood and grime and pieces of undead flesh and her mouth tasted like death and ash and smoke, and she couldn’t —

The first thing they did after they realized they made it had been grabbing to each other, forgetting anything else, forgetting whether it was appropriate or not, their arms clutching each other, their faces inches from each other, and for a moment she had thought, _but what if I leaned in_ , looking into his feverish, green eyes, but then the horns had sounded and he had whispered, _will you come to me later_ , and she had said yes.

Even just six moons ago, Brienne would have never assumed that invitation to be nothing but a jape, or nothing more than friendly, but —

But now, now that they fought together and almost died together and he came all the way _here_ to fight _with_ her and not against her, after he made her what she had always dreamed of being —

After he looked at her like _that_ —

Brienne doesn’t really know much of what _this_ kind of occasion entails, beyond what songs say, but it seemed fairly obvious to her that he did not only want to _speak_ to her, as impossible as it might have sounded to her before the last few days, and she figured that showing up covered in pieces of flesh smelling of rot and decay is _not_ the proper thing to do, and so she had taken her time to wash, and maybe she had donned the nicest pair of breeches and shirt she had in her miraculously unharmed quarters, not quite knowing why, but a part of her said to look her best and so she did, as little as her best might mean.

She takes a deep breath.

She knocks.

It’s telling that the door opens immediately, not even a question of _who is it_. Jaime appears on the other side, and he has bathed, too — his hair is still damp, she sees, and his shirt’s shoulders are, too, and the shirt is also a bit too large for him, so obviously Tyrion found him someone else’s spare clothes, and of course he did since Jaime did only come with the clothes on his back, didn’t he?

“Ser,” he says, his lips curling upwards in a tired grin, and she doesn’t hide her blush as she walks inside the room, and she can’t avoid smiling just a bit as she hears it, but — it feels good, and no one could begrudge her a little pride now, couldn’t they?

“Ser,” she replies back as he locks the door. He turns to her again, his eyes still that bright green, and maybe they’re less feverish now, but the way he looks at her is making her knees weak, and so she sits down on his bed, the only flat surface in the tiny room. “These aren’t… adequate lodgings,” she says, suddenly not knowing what she should say.

He shrugs. “It’s good enough I was given any,” he says, sitting next to her. He’s not wearing the golden hand, she notices. His wrist looks _really_ bad off — she had thought it had scarred over, but now it’s dark red because the straps froze for the cold and the entire skin is covered in welts, and she’s maybe itching to check for herself, but — it would be too great a liberty. For _now_.

She shakes her head. “I think that after today, you deserve a lot better.” She might talk to Sansa and convince her, but she figures that’s not the point, not when he suddenly looks down where his left hand is touching the bed’s blanket.

“I hadn’t… given much thought to what I might deserve or not,” he admits. “I thought I wouldn’t last that battle, truthfully. And I couldn’t think of a better way to go than _not_ fighting you.”

She laughs, a bit strained, but she’s just so out of her depth that’s the only thing she can do, and maybe it’s because of that and because of adrenaline she hasn’t still gotten rid of that she lets her fingers touch his. Not much, merely brushing the top of his hand, but then he immediately seizes it, so strongly she gasps, and she threads their fingers together without even thinking, and she realizes she’s never really _held hands_ with anyone before, not like _this_ , and he looks at her and —

Gods. He seems as out of _his_ depth as she’s feeling. Might it be that the both of them are going blind here? Somehow it makes her feel relieved even if it makes no sense that _he_ would, because at least he’s known one woman.

“But you did,” she whispers. “Last the battle, I mean. And —“ Gods, this is ridiculous, she can’t falter _now_ , not after everything. “And there’s no one else I would have wanted at my side fighting it,” she says, not quite what she _wanted_ , but closer than before. His eyes are staring into hers, his face inching closer, and she can see that his right wrist is shaking slightly, and gods, yes, he _is_ out of his depth, as much as she is.

“Then let me,” he says, and for a moment it sounds like he’s begging her to, and it makes no sense because why would he when he only needs to ask?

But maybe he doesn’t know he _can_ ask… does he?

“Even if there’s as much as you will allow,” he goes on, his grip on her hand tightening.

Brienne doesn’t think before reaching forward and grasping his right wrist, feeling the uneven scar tissue under her palm, and she hears the gasp he makes the moment she does, how could she not when it’s so silent they could hear a pin drop to the ground?

“Ser —”

“I think,” he says, “that maybe you can do away with that.” He sounds like there’s nothing he wants more than for her to just use his name, and — all right. She can give this to him. Never mind that he’s right, given what she’s here for. What she _thinks_ she’s here for, anyway.

“Jaime,” she corrects herself, and she thinks that she’s rarely seen such a pleased look in his eyes if not counting when she called him _ser_ for the first time, “I — I think you are presuming something that is not… quite the truth.”

“How so?” For a moment he sounds worried, but she tries to not let that worry her. He shouldn’t be, after she tells him the whole of it. If she can find the words. But after what she just survived, she _will_.

“That I would — _let you_ as if I was paying you some kind of favor and not as if there’s nothing I would want more than for you to stay,” she says, not quite what she wanted to say yet but _almost_. “And not just — under my command or in my army or whatever it is you thought. I mean, that, too, but —” Gods, why isn’t she _better_ at this? If she ever had _any_ of that courage she saw in Lady Catelyn once, maybe it’s time she brings it out, especially because he’s looking at her with large, almost disbelieving eyes. “I don’t care about what you could do _for_ me only. I want you to stay — I want _you_ , all right?” She hopes it’s enough, she really does, and she squeezes his wrist to make her point, and she didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t for him to actually smile bright enough to show teeth as his eyes get _wet_ , and what —

“Please tell me you don’t mean it just in a brothers in arms kind of way,” he says, sounding uttermost serious the way he had when he told her to _rise_ —

She’d have never thought she’d have to do it _herself_ , but apparently she does, and rather than talk, because by now she realized her speeches when it comes to having a woman’s courage are _not_ her best skill, she leans forward and kisses him, for once not thinking that she might be doing it wrong or that he might not like it — for a moment he doesn’t move, as if he didn’t expect it, but then he’s kissing her back a moment later, moaning into her mouth, his tongue searching for hers like a drowning man thirsting for water, but maybe she _had_ thirsted too, because the moment she tastes him she can feel that there’s no death or ash or smoke on him, just — just warmth, and she finds out that she might be unlearned at this, but…

But she _likes_ it. Gods, she wants to kiss him again, and _again_ , and more, and he doesn’t stop her from it, all the contrary — before she knows it, he’s moved back on the bed and she’s kneeling in between his legs as he leans against the wall and his left hand is grasping at her back, and by the time she has to move to take a breath and slow down her heart, she has forgotten each single doubt she had while walking up to his door.

Then she looks at him and she’s not sure she knows how to take the way he’s looking at her, the same as when he knighted her but _more_ , and she wants to ask _what do you see right now_ but she doesn’t know if she can —

His fingers are trembling as they move to her cheek, running across her skin like he’s not sure he can.

“I don’t mean it like _that_ at all,” she finally says, taking his face in between her hands, and he arches into her touch like he was waiting for nothing else. “I think I made it clear?”

He nods, moving closer, kissing her again, but not forcefully — she ends up setting the pace a moment later and he lets her as he moans into her mouth, and when she moves back again his eyes are so bright it almost hurts to look at them.

“You did,” he tells her later, “I just — didn’t dare hope you would,” he admits, and this is all so strange because shouldn’t it be _the contrary_ , shouldn’t _she_ be the one who wouldn’t dare hope that he might see her maybe not as beautiful or desirable but at least as someone he might want somehow?

Then again, it’s not as if her life ever went… as it was supposed to, did it ever?

“Jaime, never mind the rest,” she says, her voice dropping lower, “but do you ever think anyone before you respected me enough to — not just think I _could_ be a knight, but to make me one? I always told myself that if I ever — could love a man again, it couldn’t be anyone who didn’t. Respect me, I mean.”

“Please,” he says, “no one deserved it more than you. _Ser_ Brienne.”

Suddenly, a rush of blood goes down her back, and she _feels_ it, as unlikely as it might sound. She’s also sure another went to her cheek because her face feels on fire.

She leans down and kisses him again, _hard,_ her thighs moving around his sides as she presses up closer, and she needs to be out of her clothes and she needs him to be out of _his_ , too —

When she moves back, she looks down at him. He has a knowing look in his eyes, a raised eyebrow, as if he’s daring her to take that full leap, and she can feel how hard he is under his breeches, for _her_ , gods, for her —

“Say it again,” she blurts, her hands going to his breeches, undoing the laces.

“What do you mean exactly,” he grins, slow, not moving his hands, “ _Ser_?”

Fuck, _fuck_ , he says it with that low voice and those bright eyes and that hand grasping the sheets as she gets rid of his breeches and he raises his hips to help her pull them off, and she moves away to kick off her boots and her own before she’s all over him again, his dick pressing against her stomach, her hands on his face again as she crashes her mouth over his.

“Because,” he says when they part, “if that’s how you want me to call you — I did tell you that I’d be honored to, _if you’d have me_.”

That sounds slightly worried again, as if she hasn’t made it clear enough, but then she remembers what he told her before the battle, in those few moments they could spare before going out of the ramparts. How he left King’s Landing, how Cersei threatened to kill him if he really meant to join the Northern forces, how he felt like he couldn’t see the person he thought he loved in her but at the same time if he ever tried to speak his mind she’d ignore it, how she didn’t seem to care for his opinion or how she’d dismiss it outright, of how she thought him a fool for wanting to do the honorable thing and keep his word, and she wonders how could anyone be so mad to _have him_ and let him slip through their fingers like that or take him for granted like that, not when to _her_ he was the best man she ever knew.

And now it seems like _she_ has _him_ or that he wants her to have him, whatever it is that it might mean, and gods but there’s nothing she thinks she might want more, not when it’s the only thing that she always thought unattainable to her that is apparently _not_ out of her grasp now.

All right then.

“Then —” She breathes, that rush of blood emboldening her, “then you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table, and — I pledge — to ask no service that might bring you into dishonor.” She cants her hips downwards as she says it, and the noise he makes as it happens is the sweetest she’s heard out of his mouth yet, and then he’s kissing her again, slower, almost reverent, and that’s — that feels good, too, and then he leans back, a new light in his eyes, as he has found some kind of purpose that he’s only too happy about.

“So, _Ser_ ,” he says, “then I assume that when you say I shall always have _meat and mead_ at your _table_ … that you will allow me to serve myself from it?”

She understands what he means a moment later, and on one side she wants to laugh and tell him that he’s impossible and that it was _really_ a terrible joke, but then the full-on implications hit her, and —

_Could I_ —

She smiles slightly, moving back, wondering if she _can_ do this without sounding absolutely ridiculous, but — but maybe _this_ kind of bantering isn’t _not_ for her, too.

“I would,” she says, and she sees his eyes go wide at her lack of hesitation before she sits up and straighter — he flashes a glimpse of those white, perfect teeth before he slides downwards, in between her legs, where she’s so wet it would be unbecoming if she gave a damn, and then his mouth is on her cunt, his tongue licking at it with an enthusiasm that takes her by surprise for a moment, but then not anymore because his left hand is also slipping inside her slowly, his rough fingers finding their way in, and she reaches down and grasps at his hair and presses his face closer — she can feel him grin for a moment before he starts licking at her again, and _harder_ , as if there’s nothing he wants more than take her apart with his mouth, and she’s only too glad to let him.

She runs her hands through his hair as his hand finds spots inside her that she might have touched herself, but it never felt like _this_ , and as he sucks on her cunt before crooking his shaking fingers inside her as she tries to not move too much, her left hand finding his right wrist and holding it to her hip, until she can’t hold back anymore and she peaks harder than her own fingers ever made her, and now every other time she touched herself seems so dim in comparison to _this_. He laps at her cunt as she peaks, not moving at all, and she can feel that he’s swallowing as his tongue licks her clean, and she’s just glad that she has the strength to not fall over him as she comes down from it. When Jaime moves back from under her, his face finally looking up at hers again, he looks very, _very_ smug, but his cheeks are also flushed under that beard and as he sits up she can’t help noticing how hard he is, and oh, he hasn’t touched himself yet, has he, and maybe if she let him have the mead, well, she could _give_ him the meat, couldn’t she?

She smiles slightly, sitting back, taking him in hand. He about screams her name at that, and — all right. She’s never done it to a man, sure, but she’s thought about it long enough and she saw enough whores pleasuring men in Renly’s camp, surely it cannot be _too_ hard.

Also —

She gives his cock a few strokes, her hand immediately getting damp with pre-come, and gods he seems starved for it, his hips canting upwards as she picks up speed.

Then she slows down, feeling like she’s burning all over again in between her legs, and damn but she wants him inside her, now, but —

But maybe —

He groans in displeasure when she moves her hand away, leaning back, her cunt lining up with his cock, and when his eyes stare into hers they’re more black than green, and she knows he’s close —

“Do you want _that_?” She says, pressing her crotch slightly more forward against his own.

“ _Ser_ ,” he breathes, “I would — _yes_ ,” he blurts, obviously beyond that kind of talking.

“How nice of you to ask first,” she grins, feeling her cheeks blush hard, and then she lines herself up against his erection, sinking down on him slowly, seeing his throat work up harder as he moans harder and harder until he’s completely inside her, and it barely hurts, of course it does, she doesn’t think she’s ever been this wet in her entire life. Gods. _Gods_ , and then she notices that he’s staring at her chest, and — oh. Men usually _don’t_. But she can see that her meager breasts are showing against her shirt, and she hadn’t even thought he’d notice, but maybe —

“I see,” she says, “that there’s something else you might want a taste of?” Gods, _where is this coming from_ , she doesn’t know, but right now she feels like she could do anything with the way he’s looking at her like people look in songs at the soft, pretty, beautiful maidens that always get saved and get to kiss their knight on his cheek.

“What if I do?” He groans as she experimentally rolls her hips and he meets her thrust, and gods but he looks like she’s giving him everything he’s ever wanted and not the contrary and —

She breathes.

Then she grabs his left hand, holding it close.

“You just have to ask,” she says, “and I’ll be only too glad to give.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groans, fucking into her, his back sitting up slightly straighter, “ _please_ , Ser, would you mind letting a poor hedge knight having that place at your table?”

“Gladly,” she tells him, and she lets him open up her shirt, and when he sees his eyes go even darker as he glances at her small, almost nonexistent breasts that are suddenly stiffer than she had realized, she swallows a lump and reaches forward, a hand behind his neck, bringing his head towards her chest, and when his mouth latches to one of her nipples and sucks on it gently as she keeps on riding him she can’t help moaning his name loudly enough someone certainly hears them, and from that point on — she can’t pinpoint the moment he moves on to the other breast and cups the first with his left hand nor the point when she loses count of the time, but she knows that his fingers around her nipple feel rough and that it feels like it was made to fit into his palm and it’s suddenly not something he hates about her anymore, not when if it was larger it wouldn’t have helped her don that armor _and_ it wouldn’t match his hand so well, not when he doesn’t seem to care a whim, not when he’s so hard inside her and she’s clenching so much around him that her entire lower parts seem to burn in the good way. She doesn’t even think of moving away before he spills inside her as he kisses her and spills her name against her tongue, too, there’ll be moon tea for that later, and she holds him close to her as he rides it out, and doesn’t let his cock slip from inside her until he’s completely spent — afterwards, he has an ankle over hers, his legs tangled with hers, her hand in his hair and his right wrist resting on her hip as they exchange slower, calmer kisses on his bed.

It takes her a while to catch her breath again. “This bed,” she declares, “is small and uncomfortable and these quarters are still not appropriate.”

“What,” he grins, “you’ll ask Lady Sansa to move me?”

“No,” she says, “you can share mine. I told you you’d have a place at my hearth, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he smiles, looking so fond he could burst, and then she sees his eyes cloud just slightly, and she thinks she knows what’s the problem. “And not just in Winterfell.”

“No?” He asks, sounding hopeful —

“I was thinking,” she admits, “when all of this is over and I’m not needed here anymore — well. _My hearth_ is in Tarth, you know.”

The way he smiles back at her, one would think he was just gifted a kingdom. “I couldn’t be happier to join you there, then. _Ser_ ,” he says, kissing her again, and so what if she likes it?

She thinks she’s earned both the title and the right to enjoy it, after all.

 

 

II.

 

 

Tyrion’s wedding present is _not_ something they take out of Brienne’s wardrobe _all_ of the time. For one, given that it takes preparation to use it and in the months since they’ve arrived on Tarth in between the wedding, Brienne taking her father’s place properly as he couldn’t wait to finally see her come into her own, post-war reparations, trips to King’s Landing or the Stormlands and so on, they’ve never really had _that_ much time to indulge in it.

These days, though, after things finally settled, people aren’t knocking on their door every three seconds, they don’t need to take trips away from the island every few weeks (or at least _he_ doesn’t, Brienne has been to King’s Landing more than once when summoned because she _is_ a famed knight and knights are needed still, but not at the same rate as before), well, it’s happened a lot more often.

Like _now_.

He moans as Brienne’s fingers work their way into his ass, slow, coated in a lot of oil — she has a jar right on the side and she’s dipping her fingers inside it every time she has to push them inside him.

“Fuck,” he moans, “ _fuck_ , you know, I’m not _such_ a delicate maiden that I couldn’t take it, _Ser_.”

She grins at him, and now she doesn’t blush anymore as he says it as she used to the first few times, but it’s obvious she likes it, and fuck _him_ if he doesn’t like it back, so why should he stop calling her like that when the both of them get way more than a rush of blood to the head from it?

“Maybe,” she concedes, “but let me decide _that_ , my lord.”

_Gods_ , he doesn’t curse as her fingers go in deeper — it’s three of them now, rough and strong and calloused like only the best knights’s are, and then she pushes in deeper, finding the right spot, and he doesn’t arch off the bed just out of self-control and just because he’s come once before, with her mouth on him, and he’s not twenty anymore, but damn if he won’t be hard again in a very, very short time if she keeps on like this.

“Of course,” he breathes, “Ser. Wouldn’t dream to assume you wouldn’t know — what’s best in these circumstances,” he moans as she drives her fingers back and then inside him again, opening him up a bit wider, and her smile as she moves back and makes sure that the thin leather strips are properly tied to her hips is almost sweet. Cersei never smiled like that before having him, not really, not like she was looking forward to see exactly how much _he_ would enjoy what’s about to come, he thinks for a moment before Brienne moves in between her legs, fixing the pillow under his back, and lines up against his arse.

The wedding present was an Essosi piece of craftmanship, Tyrion had assured them, that was indeed _very_ popular in Lys. It’s actually fairly elegant, for what it’s meant to be used as — it’s indeed a fake cock, but it’s exquisitely carved in pale bone and it’s tied to the thin but strong leather strips and has a side that is supposed to slip inside the woman so that she can keep it steady and pleasure herself as well while, well, using it on others, and as Brienne reaches out and coats it in oil, too, he feels his throat go dry at the thought, like every other time. The first few times they used it, it had been a bit complicated to find the proper way around it, but now that they did —

“Good,” she says, and when she’s made sure it’s slick enough, she lines it up with his ass, and fuck, _fuck_ , he can’t wait for it — “So, should I?”

“Ser, _please_ , feel free to,” he says, and she grins again as she starts sliding inside him with one single push of her hips, and _fuck_ , by now she’s done this enough times that she knows exactly where to aim, and the moment it hits that spot inside him that she usually tortures in the best way with her fingers before fucking him he arches upwards, his legs hooking up behind her back.

She moves back, then forward, then back, always slow, and the smooth expanse of bone goes in and out without a hitch, and as her hands grasp his face to bring him up for a kiss as she cants her hips downward he moans her name all over again, inside her mouth, against her lips, and then she moves a hand behind his shoulders, bringing him closer, and now she’s all over him, and gods but he loves how she can do that, how her broader shoulders mean that she can hold up his weight, how her entire body seems made to fit against his in ways Cersei’s never was, how her mouth finds his all over again as she fucks into him, taking her time, feeling him becoming harder and harder against her skin. She used to think he wouldn’t like it, she confessed him, because it wasn’t small or soft or curved or covered in silk, and he had proceeded to tell her exactly all the ways he loves all of it, womanly or not, because the things she can do with it both inside and outside a bed are astounding and anyone else who never saw it, well, pity on them, and she’s never seemed to assume he might not want _her_ , the way she is, since.

Her hands run over his face, through his hair, over his shoulders, her mouth dropping kisses along his jaw and neck as she mercilessly fucks into him but not so fast — she always likes to take her time pulling him apart, but it’s not like he doesn’t love how she does it, slow and focused and with her blue eyes fixed on his, and if there’s one thing he loves most than finding out the places where she’s more responsive and to see her eyes widen in pleasure when he makes love to her it’s the way she gets when _she_ makes love to _him_. As in, how she always makes sure he doesn’t leave the bed wanting, how she always laughs when he tries to make her blush — he’s not really managing much these days, she got adjusted to him —, how she always, _always_ takes her time and never hurries things, how she seems to never get enough of him same as he can’t get enough of her, not ever, how she never fails to make him feel like he belongs with her and in her bed and under her and wherever she’ll have him, how she _does_ have him in the first place.

She _did_ tell him she’d never ask anything dishonorable of him and she never has, she swore he’d always have a place with her and he _does_ , and gods but while he knows he had little to none to offer _her_ it seems like it was more than enough as far as Brienne was concerned, and gods but he loves her so much he could burst with it and if she’s had him and _kept_ him then for the first time in his life he doesn’t feel like he’s stealing time for the only good thing in it — rather, he knows he belongs with her, at _her_ hearth, in _her_ beautiful island, in _her_ room, in _her_ bed, _with her_ , and if he had to lose a hand to gain it then he’d gladly lose it all over again.

“Jaime?” She asks, her hands at his face again, staring down at him, fucking into him slower. “Is — everything all right?”

“More than,” he moans, “ _Ser_. I was — just — counting my blessings, I think.”

She smirks, thrusting inside him again, hard enough he’d have arched off the bed if she wasn’t holding him against it.

“Guess what,” she says, “maybe it wasn’t just you.” She moves an arm in between them, taking him in hand, and fuck, he’s so close, _so close_ —

“So,” she asks, “ _what do you want_?”

He grins up at her, letting her hold him down without putting resistance, enjoying every damn moment of it —

“Fuck me proper,” he blurts, “ _Ser Brienne_.”

She smiles down at him in a way that he never thought she could but that he feels inordinately proud he could bring out of her.

“Gladly,” she complies, and she _does_ , driving down inside him harder and harder and _harder_ , until he’s coming apart in her arms as pleasure wrecks through him over and over, and she’s slipping out of him and pulling him against her and telling him she loves him, and it’s so _easy_ to tell her the same, so _right_ , and as he settles on the bed with his head in the crook of her shoulder, he knows there’s nowhere else he’d rather be and no one else he’d want to be with, and he knows that Brienne feels the same, too, and maybe he didn’t deserve it but —

_They_ might have earned it, haven’t they?

 

 

End.


End file.
